


Horrendous Circumstances

by doctormissy



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Inspired by Real Events, M/M, Married Life, very hot summer in the UK
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-25
Updated: 2016-06-25
Packaged: 2018-07-18 05:59:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7302286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctormissy/pseuds/doctormissy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The heat was unbearable. Almost all of the United Kingdom was sweltering in temperatures exceeding 30 degrees Celsius; there was not a single drop of beneficial and invigorating rain, which was highly unusual in the perpetually wet and cloudy country. However, those terrible days have come and not even MI6 staff was spared of the sweaty period spent in front of a ventilator or under an air-conditioner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Horrendous Circumstances

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by sth that's happening here right now and events of past two days, bc it was bloody 40 °C ouside and 34,6 °C in our flat. I sit at a fan the entire day. I'm know what I'm writing about here, seriously.  
> I know this doesn't happen a lot in the UK, I mean, sunny and hot weather, but I know it does sometimes. I remember five staright days like that in July 2014. 2015 too. Just a few, but there are.  
> (Now that's confusing. I live in the Czech Republic, but I'm partly English and spend a lot of time in London every year. IDK how is it now after Brexit and the EU referendum, I mean, long stays. Never mind.)
> 
> Oh, and the fic takes place in 2017. Just to make things clear. And it is a coincidence it's 2K words exactly.

The heat was unbearable. Almost all of the United Kingdom was sweltering in temperatures exceeding 30 degrees Celsius; there was not a single drop of beneficial and invigorating rain, which was highly unusual in the perpetually wet and cloudy country. However, those terrible days have come and not even MI6 staff was spared of the sweaty period spent in front of a ventilator or under an air-conditioner. 

M had given majority of his subordinates an insistent order to take paid leave and go to a lido or something, yet he himself had stayed in the office, accompanied by his loyal-forever secretary and sort of a personal bodyguard Eve Moneypenny. Despite the order, everyone still was on active duty and they had to be available if something urgent occurred at Six.

James and Q were – surprisingly – more than happy to follow the order; James thought it was probably the only reasonable one Mallory had given since he replaced _his_ M in the position of the head of MI6. They did not go anywhere, did not go out of their flat. To move even a centimetre from the fan to take a snack or go use the toilet was a rather demanding task to fulfil. They could definitely use a bathe in fresh cold water of one of many swimming pools, sport centres and lidos in London, or at least a shower, yet for that, they would have to go _outside_ to the streets, to experience the burning sunrays surrounding their skin, colouring it darker, making their bodies bake and their clothes soak with perspiration. 

Speaking of which, clothes did nothing more than annoy them even more. They would skin themselves just to get colder, were it possible. Nothing helped. James’ white vest came off two hours ago and Andrew’s ochre polo t-shirt ended up on the floor just before few minutes, after certain persuasion and pleading from his husband’s side. Now they were wearing nothing but boxers. 

Q still was being timid when it came to nudity, no matter if it was a necessary step as in a public swimming pool or just in each other’s company at home, when they were alone but their two cats. He shouldn’t be anymore – they knew each other for five years, have been married for almost a year and had sex countless of times – but that was just Q, the smart hacker and MI6’s Quartermaster. He had a few aberrations that were his and James loved them just as he loved Q himself. He didn’t at first, but he learned to, he fell for all of the boffin’s characteristics. 

For example, Q said he didn’t like his pale, skinny body however he did nothing about it. James told him to eat more more often than healthy and no other was his approach to Andrew’s lack of sleep, particularly when it concerned nights spent at Q-Branch, typing furiously on his laptop, fending off hackers’ attacks, guarding the firewalls and giving the Double-Ohs orders, directions and layouts on their field operations. James hated when Q neglected his own needs at the expense of a mission going well and no agent being lost. 

But now, they both neglected their needs. They did not eat, because for that they would have to get up. They did not drink, because to do that they would have to refill their empty glasses, which would involve getting up. They did not go to a bathroom for the same reason. They did not wash the large pile of plates, mugs, pots, dishes, glasses and cutlery gathering in the sink. They did not top up the fridge. They did nothing more than sit on the sofa, watching telly halfway and reading a book they read a dozen of times with the other eye and other part of brain, sitting side by side. The two cats were sprawled on the floor, where it might be slightly colder, wrapped in wet towels with their tongues stuck out as if they were dogs. To descend to do that, the circumstances must have been truly intolerable, for cats don’t do that very often. 

The big fan was turned on at full blast, but it still wasn’t enough. Q had suggested taking it apart and adding more power to it by increasing its efficiency, doing some enhancements in the circuits and processor and trying to make the propeller spin faster _somehow_ , but James did not let him, being aware of the ending of every of his husband’s attempts to improve household appliances so far. No one could forget the radio accident. (That’s another story to tell.) 

James turned another page of the book over, brushing his fingers against Andrew’s lightly as he did so. He paused reading for a second to point his gaze at his Quartermaster in all of his naked glory, with his unorganised dark brown curls plastered to his forehead and a mindless smile decorating his face. He reacted upon seeing that with nothing else but a wholehearted smile. 

Q did not seem to notice James staring at first, but then he asked, somewhat absent-mindedly, absorbed by the gripping detective plot, “Can I turn the page over?” There was no response from James, and that was when he realised James did the losing-in-thoughts thing again. He lifted his sight from the book to meet James’ eyes, wordlessly asking _What’s the matter?_

 

They always understood each other even when no one spoke a word, which was a satisfactory state of being when it came to the couple. They were either at work, at home being sick and tired of work, lying round on the sofa, or in their king-sized bed, shagging until they fell exhausted at their sides of the bed, gasping for breath in the post-orgasmic blissfulness. These were the shit days. There were also happy and shiny days when they went outside, walked round Hyde Park hand in hand, got some ice cream, sat on a bench and talked for hours about ordinary things, not mentioning Six or anything concerning it whatsoever. Sometimes, they went out of London, visited Andrew’s parents, went on a holiday or trained and practiced shooting and self-defence, mostly Q’s for his personal safety. They could not know what might happen at Headquarters or on a mission one day. 

This was one of those bad days. The temperature in their flat reached the unacceptable border of 34 °C and neither of them knew how it could happen, when the house the flat was in was rather old, cold and recently weatherproofed. Sometimes they felt like something almighty and larger than them just messed with the world. 

 

James assured Andrew mentally with another look saying _Nothing’s the matter._ He moved closer to his young husband, attempting to rest his hand against his right shoulder, but Q stopped him halfway. “You’re too hot, James. Don’t touch me.”

It wouldn’t be James Bond if he haven’t got a witty reply for that. “I know, my hotness is just _killing you._ ” Nevertheless, he withdrew from further moving to Q and rested his head against the sofa’s backrest instead. That had to do. He spread out his arms, his left behind Q’s head, running through his wild hair James loved so much. That, and Q’s love for cardigans and his hipster glasses, which he considered asinine and tasteless when they met in the National Gallery for the first time, but now he couldn’t imagine the Quartermaster being any different and wearing anything else. Except for the times when he wore nothing, that was James’ favourite outfit ever.

“You know what I meant,” Q sighed and decided to put his legs on the table to allow the wind stream to circulate around them more effectively and cool more of his figure. “But actually yes, I must say your body is radiating heat that makes me uncomfortable despite the ventilator. In any other day I would appreciate it, but today I would appreciate an ice-cold beer and a bathe in a pool.”

“What stops you from getting either, Andrew?” James stated, using Q’s real name. That was an act of real trust and intimacy between them – Q would never think he would tell someone of the people who know him just as Q, especially 007, and James would never think he could ever fall in love again after Vesper, especially with the dork from Q-Branch who gives him equipment that James keeps destroying, in spite of his best efforts. But a Double-Oh is a Double-Oh and he can’t expect anything else of him, really. It’s just who James Bond is.

“The insufferable heat occupying the entire flat. To get a beer, I’d have to go to the kitchen and wash the pints you were supposed to wash two days ago and I am not mentioning what would I – we – have to do for the latter.” He gave up the reading; he knew James won’t let him enjoy the book anymore and this conversation isn’t going to end any soon.

“Oi, don’t put the blame on me, am I the one responsible for the unusual heat and aridity troubling the UK?”

“No, but you’re responsible for crammed sink and dishwasher, James. Being a busy MI6 operative is not a valid reason for omitting housework. But,” he emphasised the word, “if you go, wash up and bring us both a drink I might pardon you, just for this time.” Q lifted his spectacles up a little to wipe the sweat from his nose and the area beneath his eyes. 

“You can’t be serious, you can’t ask that of me,” James protested, obstinate to stay right where he was. The moment he retreated from the fan sweat covered his skin and the dry air became hard to breathe. He really did not envy Q his longer hair however adorable he has found it. 

“As your Quartermaster and your husband I dare to tell you that I can, and I am,” Andrew replied to James’ objection, smirking. He did enough hard and important work for Six that day, so why shouldn’t James do something for him at home in return? “Did I mention how much I love you, Mister Bond?”

“That’s a nasty extortion, you know that?” James said, but he already decided to lift himself up and go. He truly had to prepare for that, because leaving the (relatively) cold and comfortable area of the sofa was something terrible in these conditions. “But alright, if you insist, _Mister Bond_. I must go pee anyway.” He gave Q a peck on his lips, got up, remained standing in front of the fan for few seconds and then finally walked toward the kitchen. Once he was inside and saw the incredibly long line of dirty mugs standing on the countertop, he called after Andrew, “I love you too.” Sometimes he needed to be a sarcastic bastard.

Q at least had the sofa for himself for a while and he could stretch out on it instead of the hard, wooden table, from which he had red imprints on his calves. He even yawned and turned another page. One of their cats, the tabby one, woke up and moved closer to the sofa, not hopping on it though, for which Q was thankful. He did not need a furry feline lying on his bare stomach, warming him and scratching him with its claws to top it all. 

James returned in couple of minutes, holding two pints full of ice-cold golden liquid with rich foam almost flowing out of it. But the return of his husband also meant that he had to get back to the position he was originally sitting at – well, he didn’t _have to_ , but he wouldn’t enjoy James sitting on his legs with all of his weight and heating him _even more_ – but it was worth the beer and seeing James walking to him, all sunbathed, brawny, smiling and wearing just his underwear.

Probably the only benefit of these horrendous circumstances.

**Author's Note:**

> I have Q as Andrew in all my Bond fics. IDK, it's my headcanon that his name is the same as James' father's. When we have no idea what his name really is...  
> Hope you enjoyed :) Kudos and comments always welcome.


End file.
